Kutipan tulisan dibawah berasal dari “Privatizing the State (The CERI Series in Comparative Politics and International Studies) ” by Hibou. Tulisan ini menguraikan hubungan kompleks antara sejarah , antropologi dan sosiologi Indonesia terhadap Budaya “Asal Bapak Senang” , Kecendrungan Korupsi dan Neo-Liberalisasi di Indonesia.
Bagian2 terakhir sengaja dipotong. Untuk pemerhati Indonesia, beberapa analisa dibawah tidak jauh berbeda dengan kesimpulan Ben Anderson. Bahkan Pramoedya !
‘ASAL BAPAK SENANG’
(AS LONG AS IT PLEASES THE MASTER):
THE PASTORAL GOVERNMENT IDEA AND PRIVATISATION OF THE STATE IN INDONESIA
‘Who knows, maybe there is no “state” at all? The government offices are closed. Official vehicles gravitate around the beach and the cinemas. Maybe what is taking place during twilight periods like now does not derive only from laziness and corruption, but is equivalent to a display.. .of a more elaborate form of “civic privatism”. The state, in fact, is getting fatter with new functions. It has penetrated in an unprecedented way into the heart of [ expanding] areas of human life. But.. .this state looks less and less like a state, because it is less and less the focal point of our loyalty and devotion.’ (Goenawan Mohamad, ‘Twilight in Jakarta’, 10 April 1982)’
‘Maybe there is no state at all?’: this disillusioned question deserves con sideration, because in fact it expresses more than ordinary anguish over the inability of administrative institutions to respond to social expecta tions. Goenawan Mohamad, a leading figure in independent journalism in Indonesia, was not out to echo the laments of those who consider the absence of the state—an unpardonable crime in exotic societies—as ex plaining and prolonging situations of chaos and social disorder. His pur pose was different, and definitely more pertinent: to pose the problems surrounding the links between state intrusions into private space on the one hand and private takeover of sovereign functions of the state on the other. The recent history of Indonesia, that of the New Order (1965-1998) but also of the Reformasi which began after Suharto’s resignation in May 1998, gives food for thought on this correlation.
Intrusion of the state into private space: the legacy of the colonial government
The hypothesis that a pastoral idea of powers prevails in the organisation of authority relations in Indonesia may cause surprise. According to Michel Foucault pastoral power is
‘a form of power that cannot be exercised with out knowing what is going on in people’s heads, without exploring their very souls.. .coextensive with life.. .and linked to production of truth: the truth of the individual himself.’
This form of power is derived from the ‘Christian technology of the flesh’. In other words, it is linked to the prac tice of penitential confession which became standardised and regular in Western Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, in the wake of the Catholic Counter-Reformation.’° It is known that the Church’s idea of guardianship of conscience very quickly spread into the arguments justi fying the monarchical state. Robert Muchembled has shown that in the absolute monarchy system, the image of the sovereign was reinforced with the image of a father of a family, and vice versa. Church and State together contributed to the definition and spread of a paternalist imaginaire of
authority relations. Pastoral power, a fruit of the simultaneous invention of the subject and the faithful in the West, thus belonged to a particular historically and geographically located trend in the political sphere, which cannot be identified with a general pattern of development of doctrines of kingship.
But how is it, then, that Indonesia, a stranger to feudalism as to Christianity,” has experienced that form of power?
The ‘colonial encounter” may well have been one of the points of contact between Christian traditions of pastoral government and the creation of ideological preferences among the Indonesian political elite. Not through the Church and the missions, but through the state, permeated by religious ideas and practices.
The origin of the authoritarian ‘family-state’ model, however, corresponds closely with an endogenous process . It appears as the product of the reappropriation by the Javanese administrative elite of a theme derived from the Dutch colonial government’s efforts to legitimise its domination.
At the end of the nineteenth century the Netherlands East Indies’ went through profound change, linked with the transition from a regime of monopoly state capitalism to a free enterprise system. Dismantling of the state monopolies of production and marketing of horticultural surpluses began in 1862. This marked the end of the Obligatory Cultivation System (Cultuurstelsei) that Governor-General van den Bosch had instituted in the early 830s. The vast tea, coffee and sugar plantations of the interior of Java, and especially the mountainous estates of the Preanger region and the Oosthoek Regencies, were broken up amid competition among private entrepreneurs. From then on the character of the indigenous labour force
had to be adapted to this new style of production. There was no longer any question of packing tens of thousands of koelies, snatched from their native lands, into insanitary hutments. On the contrary, mobility of energy and talent needed to be encouraged so as to improve the skills of the workforce and thus keep up with technical innovation.’ So the state had to take more systematic and effective responsibility for questions of collective public health, education and ‘moral improvement’ of the indigenous population.
The primary aim of the colonial government became—to quote Michel Foucault’s Les mots et les choses again—’care of the people’, that is, methodical management of their energies and their movements. It was in the course of this redeployment of administrative tasks that there emerged a concern by the state to ‘know everything’ about the state of the indige nous people’s minds. An alert observer of life in the Netherlands East Indies, the Frenchman Joseph Chailley-Bert, a publicist for the colonial movement in the Third French Republic, noted:
At this moment [ the 1860s] [ Dutch] resigned themselves to abandoning, with the State Cultivation, their function as agents for cultivation, but not their position as government officials; they looked around them to find how to make themselves useful, after their first use had disappeared. It was at that moment that there began to arise in people’s minds the outlines of a system of protection for the Javanese, especially the lowliest of them, those who were commonly called the small people (de Kleine Man). . . But this new departure had unexpected conse quences for them. The Dutch became passionate about their work and let themselves be carried away beyond what they had foreseen. It was certainly a different matter from managing cultivation. . . For entering men’s lives, finding out about their needs and desires, watching over their interests and securing respect for their rights, the difficulty increased with the number…
[ Dutch] wanted to see everything, know everything and do everything. They substituted themselves for the native chief; seeing him as suspect, and for the native himself, seeing him as incapable, and they assumed the whole burden. . public affairs and even private affairs. The result was what one might expect. This huge task required extra staff, swelled government departments, imposed expenditure, burdened the budget.
‘Entering men’s lives, finding out about their needs and desires, watch ing over their interests’—that was the colonial government’s new plan, after the privatisation of the plantation economy had deprived it of the mission which had been its justification for police intervention in society.
This structural change in the imperatives and methods of surveillance of the indigenous people called for a corresponding reformulation of the ‘imperial project’. The old language of conquest, indifferent to the productive aspects of indigenous life as to its ‘cultural’ aspects, was no longer sufficient to explain and legitimise the colonial order. A ‘civilising’ argument had to be added, which meant taking care to listen to what the indigenous people were saying—to urge them to speak, note what they said, and question them with a new sort of fervour and concern.
As Chailley Bert shrewdly observed, the colonial state ‘assumed the whole burden. . .pu blic affairs and even private affairs’. It insinuated itself ever further forward into the daily workings of indigenous life. Multiple regulations interfering with the private lives of the colonial subjects— with their ritual calendars, their methods of cultivation, even their sexuality—led to a gradual blurring of the dividing line between the public domain and private interests.
The reformulation of the imperial project was based on two connected lines of thinking: colonial anthropology and the missionary pastoral approach.’ It is important to describe these briefly, because it was within them that the arguments still used by the Indonesian state power today, to maintain a system of domination conducive to predation of public re sources, were developed. Colonial anthropology was one of the many ‘in vestigative procedures’ through which the colonial state at the end of the
nineteenth century sought, with an obsession never equalled before, to penetrate to the innermost depths of the ‘native mystery’. For the Dutch Orientalists at the beginning of the twentieth century, fully integrated into colonial decision-making circles, anthropology had to be turned into a therapeutic means of acculturation. If the ‘mentality of the natives’ needed to be better known, said the director of the Anthropology Section of the Royal Colonial Institute in Amsterdam, J. C. van Eerde, it was to minimise the perverse effects of their entry into the modern capitalist order. Better to know ‘them’, so as better to assess their potential for attaining the norms and rules of Western civilisation; better to decipher the movements of their consciousness and culture, to stifle their inclinations towards resistance as quickly as possible; better to translate their thinking and decode their myths, to be able to conform better to their own criteria of legitimacy. That, according to van Eerde, was the ultimate aim of Orientalist knowledge. Thus anthropology had to become a ‘pedagogy of the natives’ if it hoped to contribute to the success of the colonisation enterprise:
If pedagogy is a policy for children, we may call colonial policy pedagogy for the natives: its aim is to adapt to their civilisation what is useful and desirable for them in our civilisation. . .In the Tropics, we can envy the native his dark skin, but to put a fur coat over his shoulders to assuage this resentment would be to lead him to his downfall; similarly, he would not endure the superfluous burden of the European’s intellectual baggage… So it is up to anthropology to indicate what the native’s psy chological state makes it possible for him to endure.. .Does the scientific and well- balanced way of thinking that Western Europe has acquired after so many centu ries really fit the mystic sphere of thought of the East? Does the inflammatory slo gan of freedom not lead to license in a society that has hardly emerged from despotism? Are egoism and presumptuousness not levers used for undermining native society, the family, the tribe, the village and the region with all the mutual aid systems attached to them?… To take account of the general lack of spontaneity in the human mind, a long period of incubation is needed to get a new civilisation accepted.
It would however be highly unjust to believe that the sole aim of all the anthropological writing of the years from 1900 to 1930 was to serve the
brutal advances of the colonial power. Quite the contrary: the corporatist concern to preserve one’s subject of study—’primitive cultures’—often led anthropology to denounce the modernising aims of the imperial state. Thus it opposed the too rapid opening up of a territory, or became indig nant about the outlawing of customary practices. But what needs to be remembered about the premises of anthropological research is its obsession with uncovering the ‘mystery of the natives’, its persistent effort to make the intimate knowledge of the colonised people a shadowy zone of government. Even if it often condemned the intrusion of the colonial state into ever extended domains of the indigenous people’s private lives, anthropological study instilled in the heart of the imperial project a desire to know, a frenzy for uncovering which profoundly influenced the way that state codified and tried to exercise its power. In that sense this type of knowledge served as a wellspring of the state’s ‘documentation pro gramme’, and hence as backing for a pastoral form of government. By making the indigenous person an object of questioning, something unsta ted and calling for comment, colonial anthropology also made him an area for state intervention. By that very process it encouraged the tendency of the state power, first colonial and then independent, to establish thousands of disciplinary provisions aiming to bring the individual to confession. Thus colonial anthropology formed part of the origin of ‘pastoral power’—that is, the mode of government which forces the individual not only to obey but also to admit, before institutions playing a perpetual game of truth, his love and obedience.
So it is no accident that, in the history of the missionary pastor and the amateur anthropologist, the preach , thhe scholar wre so often one and the same person. Behind the will for knowledge immanent in the aim of controlling souls there was, invariably, a desire for confessions.
Confessing was a sign of the congruence of the imperial aims and the missionary enterprise. Just as true conversion had value only through expiatory confession of the pagan faults that preceded it, genuine inclusion in the order of colonial subjection required repudiation of para
sitical loyalties. The colonial state, even though it sometimes strengthened the guardianship role of clans and lineages so as to make better use of them, excluded in principle any object of loyalty apart from itself.
In the modem colonial history of Indonesia, this congruence of language and practice between colonialism and the missions reached its paroxysm when, after fiercely disputed general elections, a Christian government coalition acceded to power in the Netherlands. This coalition adopted the aim of giving the Dutch the religious exaltation of the middle class , which were then engaged in a cyclve of collective introspection following a large-scale Puritan revival. The leader of the Anti-Revolutionary Party, Abraham Kuyper, who saw in the state apparatus ‘the arm of God’, became the head of this govern ment. Queen Wilhelmina then mentioned, in her Speech from the Throne in September 1901, the ‘ethical duty that the Netherlands, as a Christian nation, has to improve the living conditions of native Christians, to pro vide missionary activities with the funds that they needed, and to inform the [ administration as a whole that Holland has a moral obliga tion to fulfil towards the people [ the Netherlands East Indies].’
The Ethical Colonial Policy implemented from 1901 onwards, under the impulse of Queen Wilhelmina and Kuyper, aimed at the ‘development’ (opvoeding) of the Javanese.
The ‘improvement of native wellbeing’, the watchword of the ‘Ethicis’ (supporters of the Ethical Policy), had a social aspect (fighting against serious poverty) and a moral one (conversion of the indigenous people to modernity, Christian and capitalist). The Ethical Colonial Policy, fruit of the conjunction of Christian doctrine and the doctrine of scientism, rooted itself in the idea that there was an ‘exact science’ of colonial government, for which new statistical knowledge was the instrument, and the transformation of the ‘Native’ into the Individual was the ultimate aim. It is true that the Ethical Policy never attained the ambitious objectives it had set itself, certainly not in terms of raising the standard of living of the popular masses. But it altered from top to bottom the perception of government action.
The theory of state action among the scribes of the Javanese Mataram Empire in the eighteenth century had been that government must keep the ‘world’s business’ going while not interfering with invisible checks and balances. The sovereign, by propitiatory inaction proclaimed as ascetic prowess, ensured harmony between the divine macrocosm (buwana agung) and the social microcosm (buwana alit).
Javanese royalty found signifi
cance through rituals of silence and privation. Authority and austerity blended, since abstinence (tapa) and meditation (samadi) were evidence of the legitimacy of claims to the right to rule. The legitimate ruler acted in the invisible world (dunia kang samar) to which he had access on the strength of his self-denial exercises. Conversely, the Ethicis of Batavia had an ultra-voluntarist concept of political action, linked to an evolutionist view of indigenous societies. The idea that society could be transformed by decrees and regulations then progressed among the Javanese administra tive elite.
The emphasis on seeking the love and gratitude of the Javanese, which was an important theme of Dutch colonialist literature at the beginning of the twentieth century, reveals a real upheaval in the imperial domination strategy. It was no longer a matter of obtaining obedience by repression, but of winning confidence by persuasion. In other words, the colonial state embarked, at the beginning of the twentieth century, on a search for legitimacy. In that way it strove to consolidate its ideological base at a time when rivalry of imperial appetites and anticolonialism were getting stron ger on the international scene. That was why use of the vocabulary of kinship to describe relations between colonised and colonisers became over-emphasised.
The historian Akira Nagazumi observes: ‘The use of this metaphor of parent and child to describe the relationship between the government and native people is a recurring theme throughout the Ethical Period.’ The analogous images of teacher, guardian (voogd) and guide (gids) gained acceptance on a massive scale in textbooks of anthropology, digests of colonial law and the colonialist periodicals of the time. Since the 1 860s members of the European branch of the imperial administration had in fact been urged by the Governor General to call their Javanese counter parts ‘younger brothers’.
This model of the ‘just’ colonial relationship was also found at the lower levels of administrative contact. Heather Sutherland has shown for exam ple that
[ Javanese service nobility, integrated into the ) imperial administrative system] relationship with the people was authoritarian and paternalistic; they were expected to take care of the peasants as if they were their children while ruling them with a rod of iron.’
The Orientalists contributed in this way to the freezing, through a legally regulated form of etiquette, of a code of behaviour that had hitherto been extremely fluid in expression. In the pre-colonial period, precedence protocols were constantly modified by court intrigues, while the Orientalists gave them an unchangeable character. Directives on the ‘code of honour’ (hormat), claiming to ‘restore a tradition’, reinvented it according to the functional demands of the colonial situation. The most famous of those directives, made officials of the Pangreh Praja—the indigenous branch of the colonial administration—to act towards any European in the same way as towards a member of one of the two great dynasties of Solo and Jogja (with bowing on one’s knees, prostration, keeping the head bowed during conversation). Worshipping a European sub-chief like a sacred monarch was a terrible humiliation for the Javanese aristocracy. The practice of ‘friendly pressure’ (perintah alus) exerted by district chiefs on village chiefs reuctant to implement government decisions was also intensified in the years from 1900 to 1920.
This new method of persuasion gradually replaced the insults and physical vio lence that had characterised relations between village chiefs and Euro pean officials in
In September 1902 the reform-minded A. Idenburg, who declared that ‘the aim of colonial rule was not to expand possessions but to encourage the advancement of indigenous people’, was appointed Minister of the Colonies. A wind of reform then blew through the colonial administrative edifice. An official of the Binnenlandsch Bestuur—the European branch of the colonial administration—described in laudatory terms, in his memoirs, the great transformation in the administrative staff of the Netherlands East Indies at the beginning of the twentieth century :
Never, perhaps, has any Government set itself so wholeheartedly and with such zeal and comprehensive thoroughness to building up the welfare of its subjects as the Government of Netherlands India in the beginning of the present centuly. Most of the officials at that time had fallen under the spell of Multatuli during their studies at Leiden, and came to India as enthusiastic idealists, filled with ardour to take part in the great civilizing mission of the Netherlands. On their arrival they found a welfare programme as the official policy of Government; zeal for the well-being of the people was a condition of promotion, as any who were reluctant to interfere with native life were likely to be regarded with disfavour as ‘weak and recalcitrant administrators’
When the Ethicis finally came to power in Batavia, they reoriented the imperial administrative apparatus towards collecting information on indigenous life. In the significant expression of De Kat Angelino, adviser on Native Affairs to the Governor General in the 1920s, ‘The government did its utmost to get first hand information relating to the intimate nature of Indonesian society.’
The idea that there was an ‘intimate nature’ of the subjected society, an indigenous shadowy silence that needed to be brought to light, was the guiding principle of the redeployment of the state. Map ping of the territories, balancing of resources and population, recension of specific religious features, collection of Javanese manuscripts, were all res ponses to the supposed enigma of the indigenous people, which Oriental ist studies had constructed while constructing themselves.
Spread of the language of kinship
At the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries, then, the Netherlands East Indies, direct ancestors of modern Indonesia, were structured by a dense network of power relations expressed through the language of kinship. The colonial government was the ‘father’ of the colonised people, indigenous officials were the ‘younger brothers’ of their European colleagues, peasants were the ‘devoted sons’ of the service aristo cracy responsible for keeping them docile. The idea behind this language offensive could be explained in a corresponding way: the problems of the colonial situation were, after all, just simple ‘family affairs’. The kinship
vocabulary rebuilt from scratch an illusion of proximity between rulers and ruled, colonised and colonisers. It symbolically bridged the gap of contradiction of interests between colonial power and colonial subjects. It aroused among the colonial elites the reassuring feeling of being able to understand, and hence domesticate, the indigenous world at any time.
However, this language of kinship should not be seen as exclusively the arm of the colonial government. In fact the leaders of the nationalist movement readily adopted it, because it enabled them to marry revolu tionary zeal with social hierarchy. Since a family is ordered around the uncontested power of a father whose word is law, the national family must obey the orders of an unchallenged chief. Nationalist ‘unanimism’, that frenzied desire for communion between the People and its Guide, thus flowed into the imaginaire of the political elite toJ2i any social revolution in the bud. A radical overturning of the structures of authority would inev itably have endangered the privileged status of the elites of the nationalist movement, who sprang from the merchant bourgeoisie or the service nobility of Java.
Ki Hadjar Dewantara, a prince of Yogyakarta who became in the early 191 Os a revered figure of resistance to the colonial oppressor, established in the early 192Os a network of alternative schools, Gardens of Knowl edge (Taman Siswa). The aim of these schools was to turn Javanese youth away from the seductions of the West, described as decadent. In those schools, true nurseries of the nationalist movement, absolute obedience was due to the teachers, whom the pupils called Bapak. Ki Hadjar in turn reigned as unchallenged master over his teachers, who called him ‘Fa ther’. The kinship analogy also made it possible to give meaning to the nationalist struggle. The struggle against the coloniser was always pre sented as the accomplishment of ‘family fullness’:
Borne up by the principle of the ‘fullness and holiness of life’, we can do no other than give primacy to the complete and holy Family, with its Father and Mother, who in every good family, stand side by side, have the same rights but different tasks, have a unity of interests, a unity of strengths, and a unity of soul.
The image of the national family thus soothed the consciences of members oft hepriyayi caste, who refused to consider the end of colonialism as involving a passage to egalitarianism.
Ki Hadjar Dewantara’s work was to have profound influence on Sukamo, who borrowed from him the con cept of ‘guided democracy’ and declared him ‘his friend and master in everything’. This idea of the state as a living being, consisting of interde pendent but not equally dispensable organs, is also found in the writings of Raden Soepomo, an influential figure in the Investigating Committee for the Preparation of Independence which met from 1943 onwards with the approval of the Japanese occupation authorities. Soepomo influenced the rejection of a proposal to mention individual rights in the text of the 1945 Constitution. An occasional admirer of Mussolini and follower of the theories of Social Darwinism, he conceived what he called the ‘inte gral state’ a whole, not differentiated from the body of society:
If we want to establish an Indonesian state in accordance with the characteristic features of Indonesian society, it must be based on an integralist state philosophy, on the idea of a state which is united with all its people, which transcends all groups in every field… The state is nothing but the entire society.. According to the integralist view of the state as a nation in its ordered aspect, as a united people in its structured aspect, there is basically no dualism of state and the individual, no conflict between the state organization on the one hand and the legal order of indi viduals on the other… There is no need to guarantee the fundamental rights and liberties of the individual against the state, because the individual is an organic part of the state, with his own position and an obligation to help realize the state’s greatness..
Raden Soepomo’s language shows how the kinship analogy, when allied with nationalist ‘unanimism’, slips towards a totalitarian conception of the state. This conception exalts harmony and the national community while reifying differences of status between rulers and ruled. The former— warriors (ksatria) and ascetics (pandita)—must govern; the latter—the common people (wong cilik)—must obey. If everyone fulfils the role assigned to him by the cosmic order, the political community will know prosperity. But if anyone departs from his essential duty (darma), chaos will befall the kingdom. This fatalistic vision of the social order was already present in the pre-colonial kingdoms, strongly marked by Hindu
influence. It was revived and amended in a ‘fascist’ sense by the theorists of the Javanese nationalist movement, who claimed Hindu descent. The later, nationalist history of the language of kinship, initially used by the colonial state to cover up the original injustice of its domination, suggests that its use was continuous, through the interruption caused by the Japa nese occupation and the independence struggle.
Since colonial gouvernementalité operated through successive hege monic steps forward and not only by bloodstained gestures of conquest, and wrapped the traumatic experience of subjection in terms of family feeling, as well as institutionalising a ‘plunder economy’ in which holding of state responsibilities was equivalent to a passport to illicit enrich ment, it bequeathed to independent Indonesia—through intellectuals accustomed to those tricks of legitimisation—a principle for the political sphere clean contrary to the classical Western model of separation between the public space and private ambitions. The common culturalist approach can easily attribute the extent of criminal behaviour by the Indonesian administrative elites to the enigmatic survival of a supposed ‘Javanese patrimonialism’. But there it falls into the error of considering the language of kinship as a univocal cultural effect. In fact a careful examination of the colonial foundations of contemporary power relations shows that the art of predation, even if it wraps itself in the finery of tradition that has become folklore, appears as a structural effect. Predation amounts to a functioning principle of a system of domination centred on countless rela tions of subjection. In other words, there is no ‘cultural predisposition’ of Indonesians to robbery.
The language of justification of corruption and nepotism, in addition, can be used in many contradictory ways. The overthrow of despots, as
well as applause of them, can be coded in the language of kinship. An illegitimate father can be repudiated, just as an ‘uncle’ removed from power can be honoured. Some supporters of Amien Rais, leader of the Partai Amanat Nasional and one of the two or three credible candidates for the presidency of Indonesia in 1999, called him Om Rais (‘uncle Rais’, a term often used by a disciple for a spiritual guide).
The inheritance of modern colonial gouvernementalité, in Indonesia, is thus found at two levels. First, this mode of gouvernementalité favoured abolition of the lines of demarcation between the public and private spaces in the name of a pastoral idea of power. Secondly, it made system atic the description of power relations in terms of kinship. Two points need to be made clear here.
First, it is certainly correct to say, as the culturalist school does, that these phenomena existed at the time of the great pre colonial empires. The term priyayi, referring to the Javanese service nobil ity (entrusted with the administrative tasks in conquered territory) is derived, according to the historian Soemarsaid Moertono, from the expression para yayi (literally ‘the junior brothers of the prince’); so, in the seventeenth century, court circles were using kinship metaphors to signify allegiance or seal an alliance. But to argue from this that the excesses of patrimonialism of the Indonesian state have their roots in the theories of pre-colonial Javanese kingship would be to underestimate dangerously the particular legacy of the colonial period. The colonial state, on the advice of the Orientalists, indeed emphasised certain aristocratic codes, and shamelessly introduced new ones, to satisfy the requirements of its daily operations.
The period of Dutch imperial domination, in the history of modern Indonesia, is therefore like a moment of rewriting, hence reinvention of Javanese culture’.
And then, speaking of ‘heritage’ does not mean adopting determinism. The procedures of control and systems of justification perfected by the colonial state did not compel Indonesian political actors to adopt this or that sort of language or behaviour. But while they did not dispose Indone sians’ conduct, they were at their disposal—that is, those actors could use those procedures and systems to claim the precious backing of Tradition. So those technologies and narratives of domination, which could be put to almost any number of strategic uses, were only one material among many others in the process of building forms of legitimacy.
[…sisanya baca bukunya saja].